Let's Misbehave (13 page)

“It’s my calling. I wanted to be an actress from the first time my parents took me to a play. I was six, and I was enchanted. Even seeing what happened behind the scenes and the rawness of it didn’t deter me.” She looked at him, all artifice gone. “But I didn’t realize how powerful it was until my first fan mail. I give people a two-hour respite from their problems. I help them laugh or cry, and they leave my movies
feeling
. It’s a powerful thing.”

Her passion glowed on her face, and damn if a part of him wasn’t jealous.

“You’re surprised.” Imogen smiled ruefully. “You thought I was a bit of fluff, wanting the attention for myself and only interested in the limelight.”

“It’s a stereotype.”

“It’s what people think.”

“It’s what people assume.”

“It’s the reality they want. They don’t care about how many languages I speak. They want to know how many men I’ve kissed.”

“How many languages do you speak?” he asked to keep himself from asking the other question.

“Nine.” Then as if she hadn’t admitted something extraordinary, she said, “Quite frankly, I could do without all that. It’d be glorious to act without having the public in my daily life. Your turn to share.”

“My story isn’t very interesting.”

“And mine was? Interesting is in the eye of the beholder.”

“Are you saying you find me interesting?”

“Do you have to ask?”

She was waiting for him—he could tell. He had the normal line he gave people, about how he’d always been interested in politics, etc. But whether it was her eyes watching him so guilelessly, or the fact that they were naked and exposed, or because it was dark and safe, he gave in to the urge to tell her the truth. “My sister died when she was twenty.”

Imogen’s brow furrowed. “Was she older or younger?”

“Older. She came with me to a party. She wanted to leave, but I wasn’t ready.” He closed his eyes, seeing himself leaning toward the girl he’d been flirting with. “She decided to leave without me. She was attacked with a knife at King’s Cross station.”

“Oh no.” Imogen’s eyes filled with tears, and she placed her hand on his chest. “I’m so sorry.”

“It was years ago.”

“But you still carry the hurt.” She cupped his face. “Tell me the rest.”

“Her attacker was caught, but the laws were such that it took forever for him to be convicted. My parents were devastated, and the prolonged process didn’t help. They moved away. I decided to use my influence for the good. To help protect people.”

Imogen studied him. “You miss her. You were close.”

“Our parents were always busy. She and I naturally took care of each other. With Valerie. Val was our third musketeer.” He touched the tattoo at his neck. The three of them had gotten matching tattoos, surprisingly at Michaela’s insistence. She’d wanted to make sure they’d be bound together forever. “Michaela was my first fan and biggest supporter. She always believed I’d do big things.”

“I’m so sorry.” Imogen laid her head on him.

After a moment, he felt wetness on his chest. Startled, he lifted her chin. “Are you crying?” he asked incredulously.

“Of course.” She sniffed, the tip of her nose red. “I’m sad for you.”

He traced a fat teardrop down her face. “No one’s ever cried for me.”

“I’m glad I’m your first.” She wiped her cheeks. “She’d be proud of you, you know.”

His heart squeezed. “Would she?”

“Definitely.”

Overcome with unfamiliar emotions, he pulled Imogen on top of him. Imogen fell asleep after a bit, her breath soft on his skin. He held her, not wanting to disturb her.

He felt strange. Calm—as though his tiger were soothed.

He looked down at her sleeping in his arms and held her close, wondering if she was an angel sent to give him deliverance or a devil there to torment him with what he couldn’t have.

Chapter Twelve

“Do you ever regret your decisions?”

Holly looked up from the mail she was sorting and frowned at Gigi. “What makes you ask that?”

The actress shrugged her elegant shoulder as she reclined on the cushions behind her. “I think about where I am and what I’ve done, and I wonder if it’s worth the price.”

“Do you love what you do?”

“Of course.”

“Then it’s worth the price.” When Gigi didn’t look convinced, she gaped at her. “Are you reconsidering being an actor?”

“Of course not. It’s what I do. It’s my passion. I just wonder if I haven’t been overly focused on that one thing, to the detriment of everything else. I don’t want to look back one day and regret the decisions I made.” Frowning, Gigi tossed the book she’d been reading aside. “It’s so easy to see in other people, but harder in yourself. For instance, I have a friend who’s so focused on one passion that he’s denying himself things that actually make him happy.”

Holly wanted to ask if this friend was a certain handsome politician, but she clamped her lips and made a noncommittal sound.

“I think I do that,” Gigi said. “I deny things to the sole exclusion of acting.”

“But you love acting,” Holly pointed out.

“Yes, but I love people, too. Before my exile home I barely knew my sisters. And in case you haven’t noticed, I don’t have many friends beating down the door to get to me.”

“I don’t either,” she heard herself admit.

Gigi pursed her lips. “Do you have a lover?”

She thought of Peter and flushed. “I don’t think I remember how to have one, it’s been so long.”

“But you’re blushing, so it must mean there’s someone you’re interested in.” Gigi rested her chin on her hand, studying her. “I know your son is the most important thing in your world, but would you make space for this man? For love?”

“I’d like to think I would.” Frowning, she set her work down. “Are you saying you’re in love?”

“No.” Gigi pursed her lips thoughtfully. “I’m pondering worst-case scenarios.”

“And love qualifies?” Holly grinned.

Gigi smiled ruefully. “It has for me.”

“I guess it has for me, too.” Holly smiled at the woman. “I’m not sure I’m the best person to ask for advice.”

“You’re perfect, actually.” Gigi stood up and surprised her with a hug. “Thank you for listening to my inane chatter.”

Holly held her breath, shocked speechless and touched. She nodded, her heart too full to reply.

Unaware of her emotional state, Gigi sat back down, curling her legs under her. “Bea says you’re really good at the accounting.”

She blinked at the sudden change in topic. “Your sister?

“Yes. She wants to commandeer you, but I told her she couldn’t have you. It’s nice having you here.” Gigi smiled as she picked up her sparkling water. “Did we get the newspaper today?”

“Yes. Of course.” Holly shook her head, trying to focus again. She rummaged through the piles she’d just sorted. “It’s in here.”

She found it sandwiched between two magazines and pulled it out. She began unwrinkling it when a small headline caught her eye.

Singing in the Rain!

She froze, hoping it wasn’t what she thought.

But it was.

A secret source claims there’s love in the air for Imogen Summerhill. A new man? Perhaps a politician? Does that mean Dirk is out for good, or is she gearing up for a ménage?

A ménage? Since when did a woman being in love equate to a threesome? Damn Marjorie.

Folding it up, Holly held it behind her back and looked for a trash can. “You’re not going to like this edition, Gigi. I’ll get you something else to read. What about the script the studio couriered over?”

“I don’t want something else, especially a script I have no interest in.” Gigi held her hand out. “I want the newspaper.”

She shook her head, taking a step back. “You really don’t. Trust me.”

Eyes narrowed, Gigi stood up and stalked toward her. “You know that’s just making me more determined to read it, don’t you?”

“How about I give you Marcus Craig’s screenplay instead?” She backed away, straight into a table. Arms flailing, she fell onto the surface.

“I don’t want Craig’s script.” Gigi grabbed the paper before Holly could recover.

Holly scrunched her eyes closed, feeling wretched when she heard Gigi’s gasp.

She didn’t mean it to come out this way. She wrung her hands. She knew how hard Gigi had been trying to stay out of the tabloids, but it seemed like such an innocuous thing to report. Everyone had crushes.

Only Marjorie had made a sweet thing dirty. Gigi was understandably upset, and it was her fault.

“Do you know who’s doing this?” Gigi waved the newspaper around.

Holly cringed. “Gi—”

“Delilah Jones, that’s who. That woman will do anything to get a part.” Gigi pointed at her. “And before you say that so will I, I’ll have you know I draw the line at slandering innocent people. I get work on merit.”

“I know—”

“And of course Dirk is out!” She threw her arms in the air. “Would
you
date someone who sold naked pictures of you to further his own career?”

“No,” she murmured, hunching in her seat.

Lady Jacqueline strode into the room, as regal as she always was, carrying the leather-bound notebook she often carried. “Imogen, I heard you down the hall. Whatever is the problem?”

“These reporters are the problem.” She waved the newspaper in the air. “Why do they cling to me? Aren’t there more interesting stars to harangue?”

“Would you prefer the alternative?” her mother asked calmly. “What if they forgot about you completely?”

Gigi frowned. “Okay, that’s a compelling argument. But being more infamous could cost me this part.”

“There will be another part.”

Gigi shook her head. “No, Mum, not like this. I need Sherman. He’s brilliant. Any actress who stars in his work is guaranteed an Oscar. If I don’t show the world my caliber now, I’ll be relegated to being the B-movie darling who prances around on screen half-naked as she’s chased by monsters.”

Jamie would have said “Wicked” to being chased by monsters. Holly knew better than to say anything, especially since this was her doing.

Sighing, Gigi dropped onto a chair.

Lady Jacqueline turned to Holly with a gentle smile. “Maybe you should take the afternoon off, dear.”

She looked at Gigi.

“There’s no reason to be here so I can abuse you simply because you’re in my face.” Gigi waved her hand. “Go home. Play with your son. Take a bath. Whatever.”

“Are you sure?” she asked. It felt like she was being rewarded for something that was her fault. She remembered how Gigi had hugged her like she meant it and felt even worse.

“Really. Go.” Gigi smiled at her, though it was tense at the edges. “I’ll be on a more even keel tomorrow.”

“You’ll call me if you need anything?”

“Yes.” Gigi rolled her eyes. “I promise. Go be with your son.”

Holly dropped her head, gathered her things, and left.

It was raining out. Pulling out her umbrella, she managed to open it on the first try and then began to walk toward the bus stop. She was too early to pick up Jamie, so she went to the office instead. The thought of going home and relaxing didn’t sit right with her.

“Holly,” Marjorie called out to her as soon as she was about to step into her cubicle.

Holly looked up to see her supervisor waving her over.

She didn’t want to go. She glanced at the elevator, wondering if she could run out before anyone caught her. But she’d have to deal with this eventually, so she trudged over, dread building in her chest.

“Holly, have you seen this?” Marjorie turned her monitor to show her the article about Gigi on her screen. It wasn’t the same as the one she’d seen in the paper, but it was similar.

Marjorie jabbed the screen. “This was a great call. You’re a natural.”

She shook her head vehemently. “I’m really not—”

“Because you did a good job, the execs wanted to give you a little something.” Marjorie opened the top drawer of her desk and pulled out an envelope. “A bonus. For you.”

Holly stared at the proffered envelope, imagining that it was a snake about to bite her. “I don’t want it.”

“That doesn’t matter. It’s yours regardless.” Marjorie stood, took Holly’s hand, and slapped it on her palm. “It’s incentive to keep delivering.”

She stood numbly, knowing she was dismissed when her supervisor began pecking at her keyboard.

Giving up on the idea of sitting at her desk, Holly went home, the envelope still clutched in her hand. She didn’t open it until she got home.

A check, and the sum floored her. It was enough to pay for Jamie’s schooling for half of the next year.

Not that she was going to use it. It was blood money. She folded it neatly and held it between her fingers to tear it into pieces.

Only she couldn’t do it. What if something happened and she needed it? What if Jamie broke another window—or a bone? The damage was done—nothing could change that. She’d just been doing her job.

She wouldn’t use it, she swore as she slipped it into a kitchen drawer. Not unless something really bad made it necessary.

She closed the drawer and walked out of the kitchen, needing space between her and her scruples—or lack thereof.

Chapter Thirteen

Bringing Ophelia Back to Life

The moment Gigi saw the headline her stomach convulsed with uneasiness. If the article were about Sherman’s project, in general, it would have mentioned Hamlet as opposed to Ophelia.

Her dread amplified by the gratuitous bit of raunch in yesterday’s news, she clicked through to the article.

It was all about Delilah and her next role, playing Ophelia for Russell Sherman, of course.

Gigi knew she shouldn’t have been surprised by it. Delilah didn’t pull any punches, and slander was her weapon of choice.

Still, anger and fear mixed like roiling acid in her stomach. Sherman couldn’t have cast it yet—her three weeks weren’t up. She picked up her phone and called Sherman herself.

He actually answered, though she could tell he wished he hadn’t when he found out who it was. “Imogen, it’s just a fluff piece.”